Better Than I Know Myself
by mewmewgodess
Summary: Sherlock is entering his sixth year at Hogwarts, and there he meets John Watson, new student, new puzzle, and maybe his first friend. Boring teachers, boring classmates, and even more boring classes. Maybe John and a few cases will help liven up his school year. BBC Sherlock/Harry Potter crossover, JohnLock.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

It was already time to enter his sixth year, and he hadn't even finished collecting all of his data on the effects of stunning spells on various animals or his experiment on blood splatters of cuts done on the left arm from several angles and spells and knives. He'd have time for that later, he reminded himself. Right now, he had to get rid of Mycroft and... Jasmine.

Muggle princesses. Imaginary princesses, actually. She went through the real ones last month. Something called 'Disney' that he quickly deleted from his memory. No matter.

"Sherlock, don't forget to message Mummy when you arrive. You know how she worries."

"I only stalled the bus once. _Four years ago._ Let it go Mycroft!" He snapped at his older brother, taking hold of his trunk and stomping away, confident enough in himself not to care that he was acting childish in front of his schoolmates. Not like any of them would say anything. People would notice, speak and gossip, but none would say it to his face. Certainly not after all of his deductions from the last five years.

"Goodbye, brother dear."

He huffed in annoyance and hurriedly got onto the large, red train. He found an empty compartment in the back of the train and got in, effectively claiming it as his own. The trunk was placed in the storage above the seat and he took out the experiment he'd saved especially for the train ride to school. It took several hours to get to Hogwarts, plenty of time to get bored and cause mischief, but on request of his Mummy, his brother, the Minister of Magic, the Headmaster, his teachers, his schoolmates... He was to avoid being bored in such a confined space.

Mycroft had collected parchments and quills and inks from various countries, and Sherlock would take the train ride to learn everything he could about each and every one of them. An entire room in his mind palace was dedicated to paper and ink. Notes, messages, letters, and numbers, were key in many puzzles and crimes.

He pulled out the equipment from his luggage and set to work, knowing that if he looked out the window, his brother and Jasmine would already be gone.

Gears whirling, electricity zooming through the wiring, and the engine beginning to spurn were the indications that they were nearing their time of departure. Sherlock found it funny that the train gave off the impression of being just that, a train, with the workings of the muggle vehicles, when in fact it was merely a hunk of metal magically powered to go forward. Apparently it was a 'sentiment' thing, keeping tradition and easing in the transition for muggle-born students or half-blood students into the world of magic.

There was a knock on his door, and he looked at it expectantly. It happened sometimes for first-years to ask to sit with him, but they were usually shooed away by other students before he could do any damage to their 'feelings'. They would never get anywhere in life if they kept getting treated like fragile crystals, but according to Mycroft it wasn't his responsibility to toughen them up.

It was slid open and in the doorway stood... Somebody.

Wait... Somebody?

He wasn't a second to seventh year, as he knows every single student in the school, and he stood with confidence, definitely not a first year. The few first years who were confident still had a touch of nerves to their eyes and hands, but this boy was steady like a tree. So... Who could he possibly be?

Sherlock was pretty certain the boy was his age, average height for a sixteen year old, a little on the short side, but not too much so that he could be any younger than Sherlock himself. Blonde hair, cut short, blue exceedingly open and honest eyes, squared shoulders (disciplined, well-disciplined, used to orders and to following them), back straight (military straight, but the boy was too young for such things. Patternal figure then? Yes. Gentle, understanding mother, father in the military. Any magic in there?), old jeans and jumper, early puberty and nothing else since. Clear skin, clean and growing fingernails (mother's doing, hygienic, not demanded by father). Ten-year old sneakers, neutral gray and white, vomit stain on the right shoe, left-handed, held person with left arm, puked on his right side judging by the splatter. Name on the inside of right shoe, Harry Watson. Brother.

Watson. Not a pure-blood. Perhaps half-blood. Father wouldn't be a wizard, not if he's in military. Mother then. But no, a mother, a witch, would have used magic to remove the stain from the shoes, not have her son clean it with a cloth. Muggle-born.

Why would a muggle-born, sixth year, suddenly be coming to Hogwarts? Transfer student. That didn't happen, but with Dumbledore as Headmaster, anything could happen. He'd learnt as a young child that power could lead to results.

"May I?" The boy asked, interrupting his thousand-mile a minute thoughts.

"Please do, Mr. Watson."

"How did-"

"Hurry in. I find the draft irritating."

"Oh, okay." The boy entered the compartment, tugging his trunk in behind him, and closed the door. Once done, he turned back to Sherlock, "How did you know my name?" The boy's easy smile, despite his confusion, was... Strange compared to the sneers and glares he was used to getting. Sherlock was going to give him ten minutes before he left in anger, probably after a well-delivered punch. Muggles. So quick to use their fists.

"The train leaves in exactly one minute and thirty-seven seconds. I suggest you put your trunk away before it departs."

"Yeah..." He mumbled distractedly as he went about doing as he was told.

Sherlock watched intently. He was right about him being obedient, not even second-thinking the suggestion which was quite clearly actually an order.

The boy sat down in the seat, sending him another carefree smile, "I'm John Watson, although you apparently already knew that." He said, extending his hand.

Muggles. So touchy-feely.

"Sherlock Holmes." He said, slowly shaking the other boy's hand. "And I didn't know your name was John, although it was high on the list of possibilities. I know your last name's Watson by the name on your shoes. Harry Watson. Hand-me down shoes, well-maintained, a family members. Could be a cousin's, but the intimacy of the item indicates closer relation, so brother it is then."

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"I know your mother is a muggle, a dermatologist most likely, and your father is a soldier, has been for a long time. Probably a high-up in the ranks. Your brother is an alcoholic with little aspirations, What I cannot see is why a sixth-year wizard would suddenly be attending Hogwarts when he's spent the last five years at Durmstrang."

The jaw dropped, but instead of denials, came out a question, "How on earth did you know that?"

"It's not about knowing. It's about seeing and observing."

"Wh-... Okay then. How did you see that stuff?"

Sherlock sighed and began rattling off his deductions, "Your mother is a muggle, obvious by the lack of magic on anything you own. The stain on your shoe, for example, was hand washed when it could easily be removed by a simple spell. I say she's a dermatologist by the state of your skin. Clean, well-cared for, and you're using a cream that's fairly new and only a dermatologist would have access to it at this point in time. Your father's a soldier, then also a muggle. Probably family tradition as can be seen from your own lifestyle. You stand tall and confident, that's the kind of thing that needs to be taught. Who would teach you? Your father, obviously. Your brother is an alcoholic, and I go back to the shoes. The stain on the right shoe is a vomit stain from beer. People hardly over-drink beer. Are we done here?"

"That... Was amazing."

"You think so?" Sherlock looked at the other boy, slightly surprised by the awe that could easily be heard in his voice.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite... Extraordinary." John's eyes shone, and Sherlock noticed that for once, eyes on him weren't brimming with anger or hatred.

"That's not what people normally say." He said lowly, unsure about this sudden turn of events.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

Their eyes met, and neither of them could keep in their smiles, although neither were really sure _why_ they were so happy. Sherlock, unaccustomed to this sudden warmth, turned quickly back to his experiment. Right. He was testing thickness of parchment first...

The experiment was a little all over the place, but John didn't seem to mind the mess, nor did he take up enough room to annoy Sherlock. They fell into an easy silence, Sherlock doing his experiment and John, sensing that the dark-haired teen wanted to be left to his own devices, took out a book from his trunk. It was after a half-hour that John finally had to ask.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock stopped smelling the russian paper and looked at the blonde that he'd nearly forgotten was there in the same compartment, "An experiment."

John set the bookmark in its place and put the closed book on his lap, and his blue eyes looked over the scattered equipment, "On parchment?"

"Yes, and if your next question is 'what', don't ask it. You'd have to be an incredible idiot not to see what I'm doing." Sherlock scoffed. Surely it was obvious?

"You have a vast collection of parchment from all over the world." That could easily be known by the little notes attached to each individual parchment by paperclips that indicated country names. "But I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"I'm categorizing the thickness, texture, scent, and colour of parchments from every country in the world."

"Okay... And why are you doing that?"

Sherlock sighed at the question. How stupid. "Because it's important."

"How is it important?"

"Because I said it is. Now shut up, you're distracting me. Don't bother, you're about to be carted away anyways." Sherlock waved away any signs of indignation from the blonde across from him, and he turned back to his work, paying atention to the footsteps he could hear drawing closer.

One person. One-inch heels. Long strides, tall, confident, accustomed to heels... Damn, Sally Donovan.

The door slid open (definitely Donovan, she never knocked. Manners, not her forté), and there she stood, her red and gold prefect badge on the robe she'd already changed into. "I was told the new kid was in here with the Freak, but I just had to see it. Hasn't run you off yet? That's a record, I should think."

"Better company than any you would recommend, I should think."

Sherlock was openly surprised for an entire second before he steeled himself back into his composed disinterest. This was a turn of events, and Sally was also definitely aware of this change, if the sneer on her lips could be of any indication. His dark eyes looked her over. Not surprisingly, she'd just had a snog with Anderson whose current girlfriend was already a graduate and was working in the ministry. She'd spent most of her summer galivanting with boys, a few weeks at her muggle mother's cottage, a row with her moron of a father (department of magical transportation. Dull.), new haircut, manicure, robe almost completely void of dirt, wanting to start the year of pretty like all the other girls. Boring.

He turned his attention to John, who was looking at Sally with a small smile on his lips. The comment was clearly not meant as an insult, but as a warning. How far would John take this 'gallant' attitude of his? With Sherlock, probably not for long, he'd lasted longer than he'd thought he would, yes, but he was sure their time was running short. How gallant was John Watson? Sherlock wanted to find out, but not now. When the boy would leave him, he could observe and deduce this new character that had just entered his life, but for now, he would watch the ex-Durmstrang student intereract with one of the people who hated him the most.

... That was odd. He'd, not _forgotten-_ merely pushed aside-, the question as to why John had transfered. Later, he told himself. There was much time ahead.

"Oh, you'll see." Sally's own smile was knowing, as if she was sure that Sherlock was going to scare off the new kid. It appeared to be a popular thought... "Anyways, I'm meant to bring you to the front to speak with Professor Slughorn."

"Alright." John said with a resigned sigh, as if the idea was utterly unappealing. Which it kind of was.

Sherlock detested Slughorn. He talked too much.

"Well, come along then." Sally said impatiently.

John got up from his seat and she made to walk away, but he stopped her, "Give me a second. I'll take my trunk. The man probably won't give me a second to breathe until we're off the train, I won't have time to come back for it. He probably talks in his sleep, surprised he still has vocal chords..." John spoke as he worked on his task, and Sherlock grinned at the words, then pushed it back. This Watson boy was an interesting character that much was certain.

"Hurry would you?"

"I'm sure Anderson will be just where you left him. Judging by the state of your knees you were scrubbing the floors, again. How hygienic of you."

"Go to Hell, Holmes." She seethed and turned her back to him, taking a few steps, impatient for John to just get out of that compartment so she wouldn't have to look at the smug grin on the brilliant boy's lips.

John freed his trunk and stopped at the exit momentarily, "Farewell, Mister Holmes."

"Farewell." He responded boredly watching the door close behind the blonde boy.

John Watson. He could get Mycroft to get all the information he'd need about the boy by the next day, but Sherlock wanted to unravel this puzzle on his own. Maybe this year wouldn't be as boring as the previous ones.

* * *

AN : Hola people! This is a new fanfic for a new show I've started watching. Finished watching the show and I've been reading fanfic and I've noticed the lack of PotterLock fics, so I decided to try my hand at one! This is set in the 70's, they're a couple years older than the Marauders, and I dunno if they'll show up in this fic or not. I dunno what's gonna happen with this fic, but I've got many ideas.

Hope you enjoyed the first chapter!

-MewMew


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Thestrals. Sherlock, obviously, found them incredibly interesting and was glad (although reprimanded by his brother for saying so aloud) that he'd once been witness to a jumper, but even he could admit that the creatures were a little creepy. He'd done all the research that could possibly be done on them in his second year, since there was so little information available, and his experiments had turned off most of the thestrals from him.

The ones that stomped upon his approach would refuse his embarking into their carriages and it took him a while to find one that was still in friendly-enough terms with him. By the time he finally found one at the end of the line, almost everybody was already seated and ready to head off to the school.

In the distance, one of the lasts to leave the train most likely, was John Watson talking with Professor Slughorn, or more precisely, Slughorn talking to John.

He wasn't eavesdropping. He was observing. It seemed he caught the end of the conversation anyways. John saw Sherlock and turned to the teacher with an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I have to go see someone about some schoolwork. I'll see you later."

"Alright Watson, I'll see you in the dining hall."

"Of course."

John's steps were quick and precise as they drew him nearer to Sherlock, and the dark-haired boy hesitated at the carriage. He wasn't used to people walking towards him, and certainly not with an at-ease expression on their faces.

"Mister Holmes! Long time no see."

"It's Sherlock, and hurry in, we don't have much time before they start leaving."

They stepped into the carriage and just as their butts hit the seats the thestrals were taking their slow, purposeful steps.

"I thought thestrals were difficult to train." John stated, his eyes fixed outside upon the creatures.

"Anything can be trained with enough time and dedication. Take a patient Headmaster and a dedicated groundskeeper and there you go. You can see them." He pointed out.

"As can you." John retorted, his face darkening a little, and Sherlock chose not to push that issue quite yet.

"Durmstrang. Why the transfer?" He leaned back in his seat and placed his hands under his chin in his thinking pose.

"How did you know about Durmstrang?"

"I _deduced_, I didn't _know_. I deduced that you went to Durmstrang by your wand. It's a Gregorovitch creation, and he works in western Russia. There is a school in east Russia, near the Asian countries, but your shoes are of a sweedish make and so you live in Sweden. Durmstrang, being the nearest, is where you would have gone. Why the transfer?"

"You know my dad's a soldier. I'm an army brat, we live in London now."

"There's more to it than that. People move, but they're allowed to remain at the same school. Even if your father was transferred to London you would have still been permitted to attend Durmstrang."

"Durmstrang's kicked out all their muggle-born students."

"It's about time." Sherlock took one look at the offended expression on the other boy's face and rolled his eyes, "I don't mean it like that, you idiot. They've been hinting at it for several years, it was just about time they actually went through with it. As years go by their ideas go backwards. Morons, all of them."

"So you don't think muggle-borns are, oh how did he put it... No-good mudbloods?"

"Of course not." Sherlock scoffed, "Everyone's no-good until they prove themselves better. I know some purebloods, and I use the term loosely here, that aren't worth more than the dirt I walk on and some muggle-borns that are simply not worth my time."

"That's an odd way to put it, but okay."

"Which came first? The transfer or the school kicking you out? No don't." Sherlock stopped him before he could respond. He'd figured it out, "The school kicked you out. Then your father asked to be transferred to London, where you were born and raised for several years before he had to move the family to Sweden. Have I gotten anything wrong so far?"

"My mother was born in Sweden and she's a dermatologist. My father's from London and he asked for the transfer once he found out I got kicked out. Harry is an alcoholic and is currently in America."

"Spot on then."

"Harry is short for Harriet."

"Sister?"

"I think we've arived." John said as the carriage came to a halt. He stepped off and Sherlock followed, apparently having heard, but still not really paying attention.

"Sister!"

"I have to go find Professor McGonagall."

"There's always something."

"I'll see you around, Sherlock."

"Sister." John shook his head and left Sherlock to his musings.

How could he have missed that? There was always something. Going over the data he'd gathered, he made his way to the castle all the while looking over his classmates and figuring out what they'd been up to in the last two and a half months. They were all so dull...

The air was crisp and biting, but he was comfortable in his coat and scarf, the blue representing of his choice in colour and his house. Ravenclaw, like the rest of his family, all except for big brother Mycroft, the ambitious tosser had to be in Slytherin and cause a fuss. Now he just sneered at them from his high position in the muggle government, having control over the majority of London both wizards and muggles alike. As much as he wasn't fond of his brother, he had to admit that Mycroft had his ways. The epitome of cunning if there ever was one.

Normally he skipped the first meal, not caring for the speeches and sorting and food, but he was curious about John Watson. The boy hadn't been sorted yet and Sherlock had to know what house he was going to be in. He was leaning towards either Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, brave (stupid) and a natural born leader or hard-working, loyal, and patient? It wasn't an easy one, that was for sure.

Sherlock was good at reading people, but even he couldn't get into their thoughts without proper data, and so the Sorting Hat would sometimes put people in houses he'd pegged as second option and not first. This, on the other hand, was the sorting of a sixteen year old who seemed to have grown into his character already, the Hat would have a lot to look through to decide the best hosue for him.

Now this was a puzzle he could enjoy over a few bites of pie.

Speech... Dumbledore rambled on for a little while... The Hat sang... First years were sorted, creating a haze of boredom on the elder students...Dumbledore again... Meal time.

Where was John? Oh, of course. He didn't seem like the type who'd want to be presented in front of the entire school. He would be in the back room waiting for McGonagall, and Dumbledore as he'd just left the staff table, to put the Hat on his blonde head to determine his house. Five minutes then. He could wait that long.

Pie. Pumpkin pie was good, he could deal with a few bites of that. Nothing that required too much brain power around him anyways. Students' lives were so dull and even John's sorting puzzle would be resolved in a few minutes. Although he was waiting to hear back from his brother on that triplet case, but he knew he'd solved it, no need to look over that data again...

Bored! This was all so boring. Boring, boring, boring...

And there was John! Finally a little bit of entertainment.

The blonde stepped out of the back room with Dumbledore and McGonagall. He was smiling. Happy with the sorting? No, he probably doesn't know much about the houses, so just pleased to be done with it. Hungry, most likely, with the muscle on him he would need protein. His eyes went over each table, oh, he was gaining attention from the students... Dumbledore pat his shoulder (he thinks John will be a good student. Intelligent? Could he be a Ravenclaw? Probably not, but Sherlock knew the bar wasn't that high considering some people who shared his house.).

John walked away from the teacher and headed off towards his table, and it took all of two seconds for Sherlock to know which house he'd been placed in. ... Wait, what? No, no, no... That made no sense! How could...? That's against all of his gathered data! Muggle-born, not well-off, high moral principle if his father was anything to look at, patient with an alcoholic bro-_sister_, friendly if his treatment of Sherlock was anything to go on. There was no possible way that this boy was a Slytherin.

Oh, this opened a whole new can of worms for him to rifle through. Of course the Slytherin's took him in, not knowing all of the reasons why he doesn't belong in their house like Sherlock does, and for the boy's sake he hoped it stayed that way. Muggle-borns were facing enough prejudice without him being surrounded by the worst of the lot.

He sat down, gave his easy smile, and proceeded to shovel down food.

Well, he'd been right on that count.

At sixteen, the boy must have done something to prove that he ought to be in that house, not just some 'gut feeling' from some old hat. But the question was 'what' he'd done. Or who he truly was. It would take a lot of acting abilities to make Sherlock second guess his first impression on someone, but this sorting had his thoughts a little off course.

This year was definitely going to be more interesting than the previous ones.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Curfew hit, bedtime happened, and as usual Sherlock ignored it.

"Hey, Freak, get to bed. Professor Flitwick doesn't want you in detention for at least the first week of school, and at least pretend you have a heart and do that much for him." Paul Dimmock, seventh year Ravenclaw Head Boy, told Sherlock on his way out of the common room for his watch.

"If you had even an ounce of real brain power in you, you'd know that such a warning is useless against a superior intelect such as mine. Go scold curious second-years and leave me in peace."

Dimmock rolled his eyes at the comment, but left as instructed. He may be Head Boy, but he had no interest in getting into an argument with Sherlock Holmes.

Bored!

The muggle news was on about some man who murdered his wife, but they missed the obvious clues about her lover with a history of violence. The wizard news was on about enchanted keyholes that were disturbing some muggle city in southern Norway. Sherlock, with his deduction ability and a brother in power, knew that the real news was about over-use of drugs in recent years and about the heightening in the use of dark arts around the globe.

Boring...

Well, not completely, but he knew the answer to it all so... The drugs would pass, the dark arts would be a trial and fail, most likely remaining in secret until it would blow up in all their faces. A war was coming, not now, but soon. A few years, a decade at the most. People were so stupid, but Sherlock knew that almost everybody was so there was no point fighting it.

Nothing interesting ever happens at Hogwarts. He'd much rather be home in France, solving crimes and upping the police time and time again, than be here doing lessons that were far beneath him. Unlike muggle schools, he couldn't skip a grade or two and be with people more his level. He was forced to remain in the same classes as the students his age and learn spells he already knew and excelled at.

At least the common room was emptying out. He hated being stared at. The fact that they disliked him was irrelevant, it was having their attention aimed at him that annoyed him. They had better things to be looking at didn't they?

Once the room was mostly empty, and with the more annoying students in bed, he _accio_'ed his violin from his trunk and began to play. In his very first year he'd learnt that the inferior minds of his fellow students didn't understand the beauty of the instrument, and so he was forced to put a _mufflio_ charm on it, making it so that only he could hear the soothing sounds.

Sherlock would deny having a heart, influenced by the insults he'd received over the years, but he did have one, like everyone else. This heart of his told him not to leave the common room to respect the wishes of one of his favourite teachers. He was difficult when it came to liking people, but Professor Flitwick earned his respect by being good at what he does and by not hating him like most of the others in the school.

He didn't care what people thought of him, but he liked recognition for his genius.

His night passed fast enough, with his violin creating enough of a diversion for him to get through time speedily and without growing too bored. As students began descending the stairs, he put away his favourite posession and headed to the dinning hall to receive his timetable. He was one of the firsts to arrive, but he was surprised to see John already there.

Ah, yes, soldier boy would be used to waking up early wouldn't he? The boy was eating for twenty again, it seemed, and today there was the green and silver patch on his robe that indicated in which house he belonged.

Sherlock took his usual seat at the end of the table, nearest the exit, and ate some toast to last himself the day, or a couple if anything interesting popped up. Unlikely, but he did have a knack for attracting trouble, maybe he'd get lucky.

"Mister Holmes." Professor McGonagall handed him the slip of paper with his schedule on it and he nodded in acknowledgement. He tolerated her. She was good at what she did, she was an animagus (which Sherlock had always wanted to experiment on), and she didn't treat him differently. She even accepted that he was far ahead of his schoolmates and gave him more advanced work to do in his free time.

He looked at his timetable for several seconds, and once memorized, he folded it up and placed it on his plate. He had no use for it any longer.

First class was Charms with Gryffindor. Oh joy. After Charms he would have double Potions with Slytherin. That could be entertaining. He could see the new boy in action. It was exciting having someone his own age to deduce everything about, unlike the boring first-years and the rest that he'd deduced already.

"I heard he was kicked out for doing dark arts. Like, really dark arts."

"I heard that he sent a first-year into a dragon's den and that they sent him here so that Professor Dumbledore could keep an eye on him."

"Isn't he handsome?"

"He's so short, how could he be bad?"

"Well, he's got to be if he's in Slytherin."

For once, Sherlock couldn't completely tell them off for their stupidity. Yes, John had been kicked out of Durmstrang, but the rest of his past remained a mystery. Even Sherlock couldn't figure out how he'd landed himself in the supposedly 'evil' house. It was mostly a prejudice, plenty of wizards from Slytherin turned out not evil, his brother was an example. Mycroft was cunning and ambitious, but he wasn't evil.

An arsehole, yes, and he had an unhealthy obsession with éclairs and power, and he was prissy and demanding and would use Mummy against Sherlock to get his way, but none of that was evil. Just annoying.

Where did people come up with such rumours?

Charms was a bore. He sat in the back, away from the rest of the students, and went to his Mind Palace for the entirety of the class. Just Flitwick talking and going over a couple charms from the previous year. Bo-ring.

Potions with Slughorn was always... Interesting enough. Sherlock, with his penchant for anything scientific, actually enjoyed the class. Learning about different potions and poisons and various effects of different ingredients mixed together was essential to his work.

Once again, he sat in the back of the room, keeping away from the others. It was also a perfect distance to watch without drawing attention to himself, which was always a bonus.

Slughorn was in the front of the classroom, talking with some of his favourite students about something silly no doubt. The other Ravenclaws sat themselves in the front rows and the Slytherin were scattered about, all of the students pairing off in their usual duos. With a minute to spare, John Watson stepped through the doorway, evidently having been guided to the classroom by a fellow classmate by the name of Kitty Riley.

He smiled his thanks, and she returned the gesture before heading off to join her band of giggling girls. Probably to tell them all about one John Watson, inventing half of what she was about to say most certainly. John's eyes scanned the classroom, and upon landing on Sherlock, clearly chose his destination.

Curious. Surely Donovan must have warned him away, even if she hadn't, someone else must have, but he seemed a sentimental type. He would be the kind of person to ignore gossip, another tick in the reasons he was obviously in the wrong house.

John arrived near the two-seater desk and pointed at the empty seat, "May I?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, accepting that his motive really was simply to sit next to him, nodded shortly.

"Thanks." John smiled and took the seat, setting his bag next to his feet. The class hadn't yet started, and the blonde leaned towards him, "Okay, so, since you know everything, you've got to tell me what the deal is with these houses." He said, pointing to the serpent on his chest.

"I don't know everything," Sherlock denied, "And I'm sure you were told all you need to know about the houses when you transferred."

"You know as well as I do, well, probably more than I do, that everyone's opinion is biased on the subject."

"Yes, that's true, but what makes you so sure that I'm not biased as well?"

"You don't seem like the type to sugar-coat anything, or for favouratism. You're probably the only unbiased person around."

"Very well then." Sherlock couldn't deny that point. Teachers would claim to be unbiased, but even they had a little more good to say about their own houses. "Let's go alphabetically, shall we? Gryffindor. For the brave, daring, and chivalrous. Hufflepuff for the kind-hearted, hard working, and loyal. Ravenclaw for the witty and creative, and Slytherin for the ambitious and cunning. That ought to be clear enough for you."

"But what if you're ambitious and loyal, or smart and courageous? People can't just be broken into categories."

"The hat picks out your most dominant traits and sorts you accordingly. I agree, it allows for prejudice and stereotypes, but the school was founded by four people with those particular characteristics and they apparently expected everyone else to be like them."

"So you don't agree with this system?"

"Not particularly. Although I prefer the idea of rooming with ten other boys my age rather than fifty."

"I suppose you're right about that! Um... Do you think it's right though?"

"You mean the system? It's a little flawed, what with the new students being so young, but a person's personality could be developped enough to spot a few important traits, I suppose." Sherlock said, growing bored of the conversation.

"Then do you think I'm a bad person? I heard Slytherin's have a pretty bad reputation. Do you think bad people know they're bad, or are they just too stupid to see that they're bad? I don't feel bad, but what if I am and I don't know about it? Can you change from bad to good if you know you're bad?"

"I..." Sherlock wasn't one for psychology. He knew the reasons behind peoples' actions, but wether they're aware it's wrong or not is an entirely different thing. Some of the criminals he'd caught seemed remorseful, some were near giddy for the attention. It's one of those things that changes from person to person, as much as Sherlock hates that fact. He liked facts, not 'it depends'. "I don't have enough data about you yet to say if you're socially considered a good or bad person, and it's true that Slytherin has a bad reputation, but it's mostly rumours and gossip, like most things are."

"So, uh, I might be a bad person, you just don't know? But if you see that I'm a bad person, you'll tell me right?"

"What do you think constitutes a bad person?"

"Um, I don't know... Evil? If I start pushing people down stairs or something... Or if I start doing a Johny and try chopping people with an axe. Or you know, other bad stuff."

"You have a strange perception of bad." Sherlock commented dryly, then frowned, "Who's Johny?"

John blinked several times, "Stephen King? The Shining?" At Sherlock's blank gaze he smiled, "What books do you wizards read?"

"Nothing as plebian as what you read, I'm sure." Sherlock huffed.

"Mister Watson, Mister... Holmes? Please quiet down."

It was then that they realized the class had begun and that Slughorn had been giving them instructions. Or at least, John realized. Sherlock had ignored the fact. The Professor seemed shocked by Sherlock's inclusion in the scolding, especially over something like chatting during class time with another student.

"Are you quite finished, Professor? You've been on about the same potion and instructions for ten minutes. I'm sure even trolls would have caught on by now."

"Very well then, Mister Holmes, since you asked so nicely, we'll go over the instructions one more time."

Sherlock glowered at Slughorn's smug smirk, and John bit back a smile. Once the Professor returned to his work, John turned to his companion. Sherlock had seen the expression on the boy's face after his comment, a look of shock at his abruptness, and expected a reprimand.

"You deserved that." Sherlock turned his glare to the blonde, who grinned, "Does being rude ever get you anything?"

He sniffed indignantly, "It's not being rude, it's being straightforward. No sense beating around the bush."

"I suppose that's one way to look at it."

"It's the only way to look at it."

John bit back a laugh, and shook his head, "You're ridiculous."

Sherlock frowned, "I'm no such thing."

The other boy must have taken note of Sherlock's put-off expression, because he was quick to correct himself, "It's not a bad thing! It's a kind of expression, it means you're different, it's not an insult."

"Oh. I knew that." Sherlock snapped, hating being treated like he didn't know something. He wasn't an idiot, he could have figured it out without being explained like a toddler who didn't know better.

The class suddenly came to life as Slughorn gave them the clear to start on their potions assignments. Slughorn helped the students gather the necessary items, and John turned to Sherlock, a question on his lips.

"So... Do we do this as a team or...?"

"If you stay out of my way we can do this as a team, and don't try to be helpful, because you won't be."

"Oh, um, alright..."

Sherlock took out the items and prepared the cauldron, ignoring his blonde companion. He worked alone. If John wanted to stick around he could, as long as he kept quiet and stayed clear of his workspace.

The classroom wasn't a quiet place, Sherlock doubted it was a good learning environment for the lesser minds than his own, but who was he to care? He could head into his mind palace and ignore the sound and the people, and learn quite efficiently.

"That's not the direction." John noted, as Sherlock spun three times counter-clockwise instead of five times clockwise.

"I do what'll get us to the perfect potion not what these out-dated instructions say to do."

"... Okay."

Well, at least John had learnt quickly not to press matters. Sherlock looked to the side to grab the tin of rat tails, but found a small pretri dish filled with the necessary amount, already cut up in perfect sizes.

"I told you to stay out of my way." Sherlock snapped taking the dish and peering cirtically at its contents. They were cut perfectly. Damn.

"Sorry, figured I could help with that at least."

"Very well, then. Measure out two ounces of frog saliva."

This time, John didn't mention the fact that he was once more not following the written instructions, and went about doing what Sherlock had asked of him. When he took the beaker and once more saw the exact amount he needed, and done in a speedy fashion, he decided he'd give this John Watson the benefit of the doubt.

"Take that goat heart and cut it in half. Put the left half in the jar in my bag, and throw out the other half."

Alright, not squeamish, he noted as John cut the heart neatly in half, blood gushing onto the desk.

"Enjoyed disection as a child?"

"I'd found this anatomy book when I was little, I was curious, so I found a couple dead animals and disected. Worried my mum a little bit."

"Curiosity tends to worry those of lesser brain power."

By the end of class, Sherlock had the left half of a goat's heart in his bag, ready to be experimented on, and a perfect potion that would ensure their high grade in the class. 'Their' because Sherlock decided he'd keep John around for a little while longer, as he seemed quite good at being helpful. Seeing as the kid wasn't going to be scared away, might as well make use of him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Despite having mentally decided that he'd be keeping John around, he was surprised that, well, John was _around_. After leaving potions (with compliments on their potion and a sneaky comment on good teamwork that was far too curious for his liking), the boy stayed by his side. They parted for their classes at the last moment and met up again after the class and so on.

Always with questions like, "How was class?", "What experiment are you working on?", "What's a mind palace?"

They were inquiring, but never rude which was... Quite honestly, nice. Sherlock didn't understand. Well, he did. Understood that people liked social interactions and being asked about themselves (talking about themselves), and being liked by others, but he'd never been like that. No, Sherlock had always hated all of that nonsense, considered it all a waste of his time.

Yet, with John... It was different. The boy was nice, but not from pity, he was curious but never pushy, he was intelligent enough to keep up sometimes with what Sherlock was saying. It was all very good and all, but Sherlock didn't need a friend.

Yet, there was John. Being a friend.

It was all very... Strange.

"The Defence Against the Dark Arts class here is a lot more..." John trailed off, trying to find the right word to describe the difference between the class given in Hogwarts, than the one given at Durmstrang.

"Dull?" Sherlock supplied dryly.

They were on their way to dinner, although Sherlock wasn't hungry, he did want a bite of pie. Just a bite. Wouldn't want to end up like Mycroft.

"Not _dull_, just less lenient, I guess. A lot more 'defence' and a lot less 'dark arts'."

"If you prefer."

There were looks and sneers from classmates, which was a normal occurance for Sherlock, but it clearly made the blonde Slytherin uncomfortable. Lowering his voice, he stepped a tad bit closer to the tall boy, keeping their words private.

"What's with the staring?" He asked, his eyes shifting to the other students.

Sherlock was a bit surprised it had taken him that long to ask, as it had been obvious since the middle of their potions class that he'd noticed the attention and that it was very much unwanted.

"You're walking with me."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're walking with me."

"I get that, but what does it matter that I'm walking with you?"

"If you hadn't noticed, I'm not a liked person at this school. Anyone being in my presence for an extended period of time is an anomally for them."

"Oh... Don't you have any friends?" The blonde seemed to cringe at his own words, regretting the tactlessness of the question immediately. "Sorry."

"I don't have friends. I don't need friends." Sherlock stated plainly. It was clear that the words bothered the blonde, yet he couldn't see why. It was just a simple truth and best for John not to expect anything between them other than comraderie, if even that. There would be no expectations that way, such as John actually sticking around.

If he gave what they had a title, especially one such as 'friendship', then he'd expect John to stay around, as that was the point of 'friendship' wasn't it? Yet if they were only companions, teammates, comrades, or the like, then when John innevitably left him (as all did), it would be what Sherlock expected.

"Oh. Um... I hadn't, um. Do you want me to leave?" John asked, uncomfortable, "You know, let you be on your own? 'Cause I didn't mean to intrude on your time, or something. I mean, if that's what you'd prefer. I just thought this was okay."

"You can stay. You don't annoy me."

"Okay." John said, losing the uneasiness he'd had and returning to a light cheerfulness.

They stepped into the dining hall and went over to the Ravenclaw table, taking a seat and this time, John was able to ignore the looks. He piled the food onto his plate and gestured towards Sherlock's unused one.

"Are you not going to eat?"

"No. I don't require as much sustenance as everyone else. The brain is what matters. Everything else is just transport." He pulled out his earlier experiment (the parchement one), and put that in front of him, pushing aside the plate and silverware. Luckily they were on the edge of the table and not many students had gathered and he could use up as much space as he needed.

"Yeah, but you need food to grow. You're only sixteen, you're still growing and stuff."

"I'll manage." He said dryly, not taking his gaze away from the experiment.

John seemed to take that as a response, and he turned back to his food, stuffing it down like he did every meal. Sherlock wondered if maybe he was hoping to grow a little himself, lacking a few inches on most people.

Halfway through his second plate, John looked up as Dimmock walked over to them the moment he entered the dining hall. Sherlock rolled his eyes. People needed hobbies, or something to do besides annoy him.

"Sherlock, stop taking all the room, other people use this table. Kid," He turned to John, "I don't think you're allowed to eat here."

"You 'don't think'. A good example of your usual brain power." Sherlock said, not bothering to look up at him, already being well acquainted with the glare he knew was present.

"Why can't I sit here?" John asked, cuting the suddent rise of tension.

"It's the Ravenclaw table."

"And?"

"And you're a Slytherin. You can't sit here." Dimmock said, annoyed.

"Have you ever heard of this rule, Sherlock?"

"No. It doesn't exist and it never will. Dimmock, you're wasting both our time. Go annoy someone else." Sherlock snapped, tired of the Headboy's presence.

"Fine. But clear up your shit, Sherlock." He ordered, and headed off to the opposite end of the table where his friends were seated.

"Thanks." John said, "But um, is he right? Should I go at my table? I didn't think it mattered, but..."

"Like I said. There's no such rule. Now shut up."

"Will do." John mirrored a zipping motion and returned to his food.

They finished said food, Sherlock having those few bites of pie he'd wanted, and then they parted for their own dorm rooms with a farewell from John and a nod of recognition from Sherlock.

It was, all in all, a good day. Dull, but okay.

**OoOoO**

_Holmes,  
__Friday 6PM, the Yard.  
__Dead end. Code 5150.  
__Lestrade._

Scotland Yard was hopeless without him. It hadn't been two weeks and he was already getting a letter from Inspector Lestrade to go over to the Yard and help on a case. Yet, it was a lovely murder and who was he to turn that down? Even if he was sworn by Lestrade to keep his distance from the other workers.

The muggles didn't like him helping and to avoid getting Lestrade suspended for letting a teenager solve his cases (not because it was Lestrade mind you, but because the man let him do what he pleased with the crime scenes), he did so. He hated having to wait for them to clear off the scene before he could get to it, but it was the price he was willing to pay to be allowed there.

He couldn't wait until he was older and he could do these things without being judged as young. Age didn't effect a Holmes, it was all on brain power, yet they were too simple-minded to see it.

Sighing, he crumpled up the page and threw it into the common room fireplace. He'd take what he could get. Only two more years, after all. And then he could do what he liked.

Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't be anything other than a teenager, no matter how much he wanted it to be so.


End file.
